Tag: Creative writing

“You want to die, so you can be with everyone you’ve lost. Live for the same reason.”

Submitted for second year creative writing coursework; graded: 72/100.

I was struck by lightning a few days before my seventeenth birthday. It killed me quite badly. Scorch marks, a complete shutdown of my respiratory and cardiovascular systems and my favourite shirt was ruined.

It was the hottest day of the year and our dads decided to have a picnic at the local park with me, my younger brother and sister, and our surrogate mum. On the scale of weirdness, the subsequent storm comes second to the picnic. We were a family under an unspoken social stigma, lacking most social skills in a social environment, so you can imagine the awkwardness. I guess it was Dad 1’s way of dealing with that. “No wi-fi here,” he said as he set out the sandwiches. The rest of us exchanged a look of horror – Dad 2 included, and we promptly turned on our mobile data. It was a far more expensive day out than any of us could have anticipated.

About an hour in, the fluffy white clouds bled to dark grey. They hesitated for a moment as if to say, “watch this”, then unleashed heavy raindrops that stung our skin. Dad 1 scooped everything up in the picnic blanket and we raced back to the car for shelter. I was two–maybe three–steps away when the first bolt of lightning struck me down. In that moment, I smelt overcooked chicken, wet dog and piss.

The thing I remember most about my little death was hearing everything that went on outside my body. Dads, mum and my sister were screaming, bawling their eyes out. I even heard my emotionless mess of a brother hiccuping with fear, “Is he –? Is he… dead?”

I’m not sure if I speak for all corpses or if this was some strange precursor to… well, I’ll get to that part. But, if that’s not the case, then, the dead are conscious. And in my opinion, that’s seriously messed up. Like, how long are they conscious for? Is it just while the brain activity ceases? Is it forever? Imagine being on your deathbed, your wife’s telling you how much she loves you, wishing she could spend more time with you. All that soppy shit. You’re convinced you’ll die a happy man. You close your eyes and you die. Then you hear her say, “Thank fuck.” You’re rightly confused, maybe even pissed off, but you’ve got to be pissed off blind and paralysed for goodness knows how long.

Fortunately, my parents only complimented me in death.

“My beautiful boy,” mum said between her wailing.

Dad 2 was sobbing on top of my chest, praying like I’d never heard before. “Please beat again. If there is a god, I’ll do anything. Just let him live.” Maybe someone heard him. If I had to place bets, I’d say Zeus. Not long after the ambulance arrived and my family had been told to move away, lightning struck twice. My corpse doubled forward and like that, I was alive again. Heart racing, ragged breaths, all seeing, all feeling again. Weirdly my first thought was not that I’d just died, but how undignified I felt lying in a puddle of piss. Sure, it was the last thing anyone else noticed, but it wasn’t something I was in the habit of doing. But, I digress.

I turned to face my family, their mouths hung open in disbelief. The paramedics shared the same expression. “He was dead,” one of them said. “I checked. His heartbeat, his pulse – I swear, there was nothing.”

“It’s a miracle,” mum said.

That was one word for it.

I made the news. You know, the light humoured, less depressing segment towards the end. Footage of my reanimation (someone had been filming me when I died) was watched all over the world. I became something of a global sensation, everyone’s favourite talking topic and the latest meme. From showing off the lightning shaped scarring from the back of my neck to my torso, to attempting to answer questions the experts couldn’t, this life was a little crazy. “I’m just a freak of nature,” I joked on one television show. A roar of laughter from the audience ensued.

The fun and games eventually died down. But that wasn’t the only thing dying.

(This piece was submitted for my Creative Writing coursework. Inspired by Raymond Carver’s ‘I Could See the Smallest Things’)

A car alarm started going off outside. Her eyelids were heavy, so she tried to ignore it. But then she wondered if it was her car; it was only a few months old and she had never heard the alarm before.

The clock on the bedside table said 1.55 A.M., though Ellie hadn’t adjusted it since the transition to spring nearly three weeks ago. Other things occupied her thoughts of late.

Workshopping. You hand out your latest piece of writing for critiquing and subtly watch your peer’s facial expressions as they read it. Surely they’re at that part by now. Wait, why did they scowl? Oh no, they hate it!

Often you feel anxious about letting others read a piece of work you absolutely love, even more so if you completely hate it. However, the returned criticism is always constructive and pointing out flaws in other people’s work actually helps you to stop making the same mistakes in your own.

The sudden roaring of oceanic winds so violent the ornaments shiver. I go to the window, the fallen leaves swirl as if caught in an invisible tornado before scattering across the lawn in a flurry of orange, yellow and red. Maybe nature’s angry. Or maybe she just wants your attention. I mean just look at what she can do. Perhaps the sky is grey to make the leaves easier to see – have you ever thought about that?

Later on, rain drums on the windowsill as I lie in bed. Counting sheep never works, but there’s something therapeutic about rain and wind in unison. I’d go to the window again, but I’m wrapped up, nodding off. I can only imagine her beautiful chaos.

He threw with all his might, but the third stone came skipping back. It leapt out of the water and rolled across the sand, stopping at his toes. Bewildered, he picked it up, weighing it in his hand as he turned to his little sister. “Wow, did you see that?” The moment he saw her face, he gasped. Of course. No one can skip a stone and make it come back. No one. But maybe Ellie could. Her eyes were glazed white like golf balls, focused – almost dead.

You’ve had this chair for a long time now. It’s comfortable, supportive and not bad to look at. You were once proud to have this chair. You didn’t want to let it go. But after a few years, someone put a hole in the back – or at least you think it was someone else. Either way, you barely even noticed to begin with. Then, one time you sat down and it didn’t feel as comfortable as usual – maybe a spring had gone. Was that you? Had it been the person who put the hole in the back?

As time went on, the hole worsened and the chair became more and more uncomfortable. You started to find reasons not to sit down at all. That hole’s now a tear etching its way across the front and – what’s that? – a bad smell coming from it? Surely you can repair it. A bit of air freshener, a needle and thread. Yeah, it’ll be fine. But once the needle’s in, the tear gets bigger and springs lose their elasticity. You’re so repulsed by the fact that this chair – this once magnificent piece of furniture is… what, rejecting you?